


A Burial Under Snow

by OrsFri



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Brief appearances of other characters - Freeform, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrsFri/pseuds/OrsFri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1918, near the north of the Eastern Front. Ivan is a POW, and Gilbert is a First Lieutenant at his camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Burial Under Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carnagekiid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnagekiid/gifts).



> This is incredibly late (real-life, research, and scrapped drafts/ideas are a terrifying combination) and I am very sorry. I am not very happy with this, but I have delayed and batted at this fic and its multiple previous versions/plotlines for too long.
> 
> Also, warnings for potential historical inaccuracies, as well as morbid discussions.

If asked what snow smells like, Ivan will say it smells a little chilly, a little dry, and a little like newly formed ice on the riverbed that marks the beginning of fun-filled days gliding on secondhand skates, and effectively not answering anything at all.

Which is why, when Lieutenant Beilschmidt quirks his eyebrows and asks, "Snow has a smell?" Ivan hesitates.

"I guess sometimes it feels pretty refreshing," Lieutenant Beilschmidt continues, shifting his weight, "and it delays the stank of rotting corpses."

And it is reasons like this, the casual way Lieutenant Beilschmidt speaks of war and death like one talks about a distant relative coming to visit, that makes Ivan hesitates so much.

He ponders, for a moment, if he should give his usual answer. But no: Lieutenant Beilschmidt, however friendly, is still his captor, and Ivan can't quite ignore the hysterical glint in those eyes that seems to manifest by the metal edges of the pistol strapped to Lieutenant Beilschmidt's hips.

"I guess," Ivan replies carefully, "it smells of home." Then, "I like snow."

Lieutenant Beilschmidt snorts. "Home? Your home is probably razed to the ground by the German army." He looks vaguely proud when he says it. Ivan tightens his jaws and does not react.

* * *

Ivan revels in the little rebellions.

A little glare here, a snarky retort there; most officers let him get away with it because Ivan is big and Ivan is strong, and as much as bloodshed makes him queasy Ivan has no qualms driving a bayonet up a few ribs if that means he can live.

But sometimes Ivan takes it too far, and this is how he ends up staring up the barrel of a gun.

And this will be the last thing he sees too, until Lieutenant Beilschmidt yells something about wars and rules, and the gun shifts away.

The pressure around his arms loosened, and without anyone holding him up, Ivan's knees buckle.

His knees thud heavily into the ground, the rocks digging sharply at bones. But there's a loud ringing in his ears, and Ivan barely registers the pain - barely even registers the vague surprise he has felt at not simply toppling face-first into the ground.

His head is still buzzing when Lieutenant Beilschmidt hauls him up. It takes him a few seconds before Ivan realises he is being talked to.

"You alright, boy?" Lieutenant Beilschmidt asks, and Ivan will protest about being the same age, has his tongue not feel so numb.

Instead, he nods dumbly, and shivers when Lieutenant Beilschmidt places a hand on Ivan's back. If Lieutenant Beilschmidt notices, he doesn't mention it.

Lieutenant Beilschmidt lets his hand stays there for a few more seconds, before his fingers tighten and he digs them between the ridges of Ivan's spine.

"You know," Lieutenant Beilschmidt begins, "I've been in this war for so long, killed so many men, almost be killed by so many others for so long, but the fear when you realise you are probably about to die, that - it never truly goes away."

Ivan knows - of course he does, he has fought and killed in the very same war before he is where he is now. It's just that he's been here for so long, facing different kinds of danger and different types of threats, and he has been expecting something like dying from hunger or haemorrhage, or something that is slow and agonising and _ambiguous_. Not a gun.

Ivan shivers again.

"Hey, boy." The hand on his back begins rubbing small circles. "Do you want to take a break? Spend some time alone calming down or something."

It takes too long for Ivan to formulate a response. "I will be fine, Lieutenant." Surprisingly, his voice does not shake.

Lieutenant Beilschmidt eyes him dubiously, but does not say a thing. Instead, he waits, until the shivers become less obvious; then he increases the pressure against Ivan's spine, and guides him back to a quieter part of the railroad, to - as they always say - let work numb everything else.

* * *

The first time Ivan meets Lieutenant Beilschmidt, the latter has just transferred over. He's still rather confused then, not knowing where is where and who is what, but Lieutenant Beilschmidt is already somewhat off up there.

He has to be. Otherwise he won't just casually stroll up to Ivan right after someone has pointed Ivan out with a whisper that says, __M__ _onster_.

"Hello boy," Lieutenant Beilschmidt greets - in Russian, surprisingly - bumping a fist against Ivan's left shoulder. Even then, his smirk spreads too wide. 

A normal prisoner will remain silent. A smart prisoner will know how to react. Too bad Ivan is neither smart nor normal, but rather labelled by the officers as _troublemaker_ and his fellow prisoners as _threatening_. 

"Lieutenant," Ivan addresses cautiously. 

"And he speaks!" Lieutenant Beilschmidt gasps. "Frankenstein truly is a genius!"

Before the war, Ivan is a farmer, but his family has managed to chip together enough money to send his youngest sister to study words from a Brother in the church. She used to read her stories aloud for him, and this is the only reason why Ivan understands the reference. 

"But can he create food out of nothing," Ivan retorts. "One more life is one more mouth to feed." 

Pleasant surprise flutters across Lieutenant Beilschmidt's face. "Oh, someone is bitter!" he leers, before walking away to resume - resume whatever he is doing. 

Ivan shrugs, and returns to his work, but everyday after that Lieutenant Beilschmidt will look for him, to chatter on about everything and nothing at all. 

And Ivan, even though he loathes to admit, is lonely. So he holds his tongue and tolerates Lieutenant Beilschmidt's company. 

Sometimes, if he is feeling sentimental, he'll even admit that he enjoys it. 

* * *

"What is war," says Lieutenant Beilschmidt, "but the follies of the rich and the powerful?" 

It is such an uncharacteristic thing for him to say, that Ivan drops his nails. The nails bounce off the metal in loud clanks and scatter, startling both guards and prisoners alike. Ivan mutters an apology and bends to pick them up, and silently curses Lieutenant Beilschmidt for making Ivan lose his grip, even if the very man is the reason why no one gives him more shit for such blatant carelessness. 

When Ivan looks back up, Lieutenant Beilschmidt is staring at him. "Aren't you going to ask me about who I heard it from?" 

"Oh." Ivan reaches out for his hammer. Lieutenant Beilschmidt passes it to him. "Who did you hear it from then, Lieutenant?" 

"An old friend from the bar. English." Lieutenant Beilschmidt preens slightly. "Funny guy. He's as proud as those Englishmen go. Did you know," he mutters, voice dropping, "that he actually hears the sentence first from a French whore? I bet he's lying; even his English whores won't touch him, let alone a French one!"

Lieutenant Beilschmidt explodes into loud cackles, and Ivan tries his best not to grimace. "Did you call him out on it?" 

The laughter cuts off as abruptly as it begins. "Of course I did! And then I punched him! It's one of the best bar fight I ever had in ages." 

"Ah, that's good." 

"It is." Lieutenant Beilschmidt nods solemnly. Then he sighs. "Too bad I have to stab him when the war breaks out. I still have the bayonet I used to kill him! It's the very same one I drove into his French whore's heart. As it turns out, it's not really a whore but a fellow soldier, you see, and I only know that because I found a picture on that French poncey's corpse with the two of them together.

"But it's alright now." Lieutenant Beilschmidt turns his sharp grin unto Ivan. "I buried the picture along with the bayonet, so now they can be together forever."

A prisoner behind Ivan trips, causing the guard to bark at him. Lieutenant Beilschmidt stands up nonchalantly and walks away, leaving Ivan hunching over his nails and resisting the urge to hurl. 

* * *

Lieutenant Beilschmidt does have his finer moments, when he is a little less mad and a lot more amicable, but nonetheless still volatile, and Ivan's fellow prisoners will nudge Ivan's shoulder and whisper, "The Madman has taken his drugs today." 

As far as nicknames go, Lieutenant Beilschmidt's is not the worse - somehow even fitting for him - but Lieutenant Beilschmidt doesn't take drugs. He fears doctors and physicians ever since one of them tries to bleed his favourite granduncle (who later dies, anyway, because, as Lieutenant Beilschmidt has muttered bitterly, the drugs are tainted) and now avoids needles and morphine even in the war hospitals. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt once told Ivan that he used to know this pretty but brutal nurse who simply whacks Lieutenant Beilschmidt with her clipboard until he behaves, or ignores him until he faints with blood loss. Ivan is pretty sure that is unethical, but Lieutenant Beilschmidt is still alive, and kicking very aggressively, so Ivan won't question too much. 

In fact, Lieutenant Beilschmidt has been kicking so aggressively, he pulls his calf muscles and is now snarling at another officer who is nursing his broken nose. Ivan, who is really just at the wrong place at the wrong time, has witnessed the entire fight, and is thus being forced to stay and retell the whole event to the final and very exasperated looking officer that just happened to be Lieutenant Beilschmidt's brother. 

Said brother also ranks higher than Lieutenant Beilschmidt, but Ivan knows not to talk about that. 

 _Captain_ Beilschmidt whirls around to glare at the other two after Ivan has given his account. "You two started a fight over the design of Edelstein's spectacles." His voice is unamusingly flat. 

"He should have bought rimless ones," Lieutenant Beilschmidt defends. 

" _Excuse you_ , but the C-bridge pince-nez is a true classic." 

"Honestly, I can't tell the difference," Captain Beilschmidt admits, and ignores the scandalised looks the other two officers shoot his way. "They do look very similar!" He turns to Ivan. "Could you _tell_ the difference between a pince-nez and a rimless?" 

"If I squint-" 

"Precisely!" Captain Beilschmidt declares, turning back to the two officers. "This is extraordinarily shameful. Tidy yourself up and clean up the area. I shall handle the matter. By the time I'm back I expect everything to look normal." 

He marches pass Ivan as though he hasn't even registered Ivan's presence. Lieutenant Edelstein shrugs, looks around at the scattered boxes and collapsed tents, and wandered off without a word. 

"Lieutenant?" Ivan begins, stepping forward. "Is your leg fine?" 

"Good enough," he harrumphs, and wobbles to his feet. "Help me clear these up?" 

Ivan nods, and they set out to work respectively. Ivan has been helping to prop up the tent when Lieutenant Beilschmidt asks, "What are you doing here, actually?" 

"Me?" Ivan blinks. "I was, ah, scavenging for food." 

"There's no food here." 

"There's a bin." 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt shuffles, and winces when he puts too much pressure on his injured leg. "Sometimes I forgot how bad things are." 

Ivan has seen the guards picking at their small block of dried bread, saving up bits and pieces for later, and wonders if Lieutenant Beilschmidt can't feel the hollow clench in his stomach the same way everybody else do. Ivan sees the effects in himself, in the way his bones protrude sharp and angular against his skin when he used to be called chubby, and the way his body seems to cave into itself when he squats, his knee digging painfully against his ribs. He feels like he is dying, and a faint sense of panic wells in his chest. 

"Hey, thanks for the help," Lieutenant Beilschmidt suddenly speaks. Ivan jolts, and he realises his hands can't stop trembling. 

"It's no problem," he replies. His hands are still trembling, so he clenches them. It doesn't help much. 

"No, I mean, here." Lieutenant Beilschmidt fumbles with his pockets until he fishes out a piece of stale bread. It is grey and so stiff that Ivan can probably kill someone if he tosses the bread at people's head, but Ivan is _hungry_. 

He snatches the bread and tears into it. It is only when he's finished did he remember the guards that tuck their breads into their breast-pocket. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Ivan says, and winces at how lacking his gratitude sounds for someone who just _gave up his rations_. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt seems to be able to read his thought. "Don't worry, I'll steal some bread from Edelstein. He owes me for making me clean up after him." 

"Thank you, Lieutenant." 

"Hey, don't sound so guilty." And this is the first time Ivan sees Lieutenant Beilschmidt smiles, a real honest one, gentle and a little melancholic, and so full of unconscious fondness that it steals Ivan's breath away. "I give you the bread because I want you to live. This camp will be even more trashy without you."

“Trashy?" 

"Yeah. And dull and miserable and plain out trashy." 

It earns Lieutenant Beilschmidt a chuckle, and he beams proudly at Ivan. 

A comfortable silence lulls over them. Ivan thinks he needs to say something important now, before the moment slips away and Lieutenant Beilschmidt slips back into his usual self; and then there is also that weird warmth that threatens to explode inside his chest. "Lieutenant, you smell like snow," he blurts, and before his mind can catch up with what he says, Ivan scurries away. 

* * *

 

Ivan has thought about escaping. He thinks about it frequently, actually, but when the water is frozen over and the land to home a battleground, Ivan isn't stupid enough to try, thank you very much. 

That doesn't mean he won't stare forlornly off into the distance and sulk. 

And that is how Lieutenant Beilschmidt finds him, glaring at a piece of rock on the ground in the late evening at the peripheral of the camp. 

"Aren't you supposed to be working?" Lieutenant Beilschmidt mocks, his grin a little too wide and eyes flickering too much. 

Ivan does not answer because Lieutenant Beilschmidt asks this every evening, and Ivan's answer changes every time, but he never tells Lieutenant Beilschmidt the real answer that, actually, it is because of the Lieutenant himself that Ivan dares to slip away to skive. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt never cares whether Ivan answers or not, and he goes on to chatter about the letters he has to censor and how he sometimes adds his commentary in the margins before sending it out. 

"Hey boy," Lieutenant Beilschmidt interrupts himself. It is almost jarring, if Ivan isn't so used to it. "Do you mean it when you say I smell like snow the last time?" 

All of Ivan's cognitive abilities seem to shut down at once. "I - erm. Yes?" 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt scrunches his eyebrows and nods thoughtfully to himself. His eyes flick back towards Ivan, and then he is looming over Ivan. 

"Don't move," he orders, and then cups Ivan's cheeks in his hand. 

To hell with his brain; Ivan's _heart_  has shut down. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt has taken off his gloves, and now dry, callused hands are mapping Ivan's face and squeezing his cheeks. Ivan grunts and struggles to hold in a sneeze when his nose is pinched. 

"What are you doing, Lieutenant?" 

"I said don't move." Lieutenant Beilschmidt thumbs mindlessly along the length of Ivan's cheekbones. "I am trying to commit your face to memory." 

Ivan thinks, _why_ _, what does it matter to a madman like you_ , but then Lieutenant Beilschmidt clamps his palm over Ivan's lips and hisses a loud _shh_. 

It is then that Ivan realises how close Lieutenant Beilschmidt's face is. He draws in a sharp breath through his nose. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt's grip tightens. "Don't. Move." 

He holds it there for a moment longer, before he removes his hand, slowly, fingers trailing down Ivan's lips before tapping at the underside of Ivan's chin, and then dropping it altogether. 

"You can move now," Gilbert whispers, his breath ghosting warm and fuzzy over Ivan's mouth. 

If asked, Ivan will deny it, will swear up and down that no, he does not lean in then, and no, he does not jerk away immediately after, cheeks burning bright red even though their noses have not even touched. 

But no one asks, so Ivan is left flushing and Lieutenant Beilschmidt blinking in surprise, before his face breaks into a smug grin. He pats Ivan's cheeks once, twice; and then struts away, whistling as Ivan flushes darker.

* * *

Sometimes, Ivan wonders about the exact moment when things change.

If he has to set an exact scene when things change and the fuzzy feeling in his chest starts welling, Ivan will say that it is this one time, a few weeks after they first met, when Lieutenant Beilschmidt catches Ivan scratching at his beard, that things change.

"How is it like to grow a beard? Is it that ticklish? I've always wanted to grow one just to try it out, but it looks too funny when I start, so I gave up," Lieutenant Beilschmidt informs, lifting a hand to touch Ivan's beard.

Ivan flinches away. Lieutenant Beilschmidt snatches his hand back. "It is dirty _._ "

"Well, clean water is scarce." Lieutenant Beilschmidt shrugs. "Actually, I  always feel that you don't look like someone who will want to keep a beard."

"I don't," Ivan admits, "but there is no way for me to shave it."

Lieutenant Beilschmidt nods; then his eyes light up, and he slings an arm around Ivan's shoulders. "I have razors and a tube of shaving cream back in my tent. They require all the officers in the regiment to shave, but I don't need to." Lieutenant Beilschmidt rubs his chin with his free hand. "I can help you shave your stubble every time it grows back."

Ivan raises an eyebrow. He has learnt to ignore any potential implications in Lieutenant Beilschmidt's words. "Do you even know how to?"

"Heh, that is where you are wrong - I have a younger brother, remember? Don't underestimate me."

"Captain Beilschmidt?" Ivan asks, and realises coincidences truly does not exist after all. "He is unlike you."

Lieutenant Beilschmidt snorts. "Of course. I raised him well," he boasts, and then slips off from Ivan's side. "Come on, if you trust me enough, I'll shave off that forest hanging off your chin."

And this is how Ivan ends up sitting on a wooden crate as Lieutenant Beilschmidt shaves off the beard. It startles Ivan with a jolt when he realises how easy it is for Lieutenant Beilschmidt's hand to slip and the razor to pierce through Ivan's jaw. But the razor does not slip, even though it has nipped his chin, and the phantom touch of foreign fingers linger in Ivan's mind. It only takes a few more shaving sessions, when Ivan thinks, a little dumbstruck, a little intimidated, that perhaps this is when things change, and Ivan begins to trust Lieutenant Beilschmidt.

* * *

There is a piece of parchment in Lieutenant Beilschmidt's hands the next time Ivan sees him. 

When Lieutenant Beilschmidt hands over the paper, Ivan sees that it is a floating portrait of both the Lieutenant and him. 

"Did you draw them?" Ivan holds the parchment up against the light. "They are very good." 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt grins. "Of course." He puffs up his chest proudly. "People use paper to send letters and codes. I waste them for your face!" He guffaws. "See how those generals like that!" 

Ivan wants to tell him that generals are too high up to be bothered by things such as paper rationing, but Lieutenant Beilschmidt's eyes are flickering too much again for him to truly be all there. 

And then those eyes settle on _Ivan_ , and the look softens. 

"Follow me," Lieutenant Beilschmidt urges, tugging Ivan away from the main camp. 

They are too near the frontlines for their camp to be nothing but temporary. That is why there are no tall, barbed wire fences surrounding them, but nonetheless barbed barricades and armed guards are still about to keep them in. 

Ivan always thinks those unnecessary, because there is nowhere else to go other than deeper into enemy territory, and that in itself is a different sort of hell.

("The camp is, eh, _Purgatario_. Do well and survive long enough, and you will stand a chance to leave. If the war ends," Lieutenant Beilschmidt once tells him. Instead of asking about how Lieutenant Beilschmidt is obviously well-read or the senseless optimism the sentence suggests, Ivan scrunches his eyebrows and picks on the _if_. 

"Pftt. We have been fighting for almost four years already. If the top wants to stop, they would have done so by now," Lieutenant Beilschmidt replies, shrugging. 

Ivan wants to ask, what will happen then, if all the soldiers die out and the people die out and the kings topple over because the people are desperate. But Lieutenant Beilschmidt is already looking away, so Ivan chalks that up as a conversation for other times.) 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt shoots a glare at the guards, and the latter group lets them pass after some grunts and more frowns. Ivan allows himself to be pulled into the woods, until they reach a clearing with a tree stump. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt circles the area a few times, before finally settling on a spot to left of the tree stump. He taps the spot with the tip of his boots, and then declares, "We are going to dig a hole here." 

Ivan blinks. "With what?" 

"With our bare hands," Lieutenant Beilschmidt answers nonchalantly. "Or whatever you can find around here that helps anyway." With that, he claws against the soil and starts uprooting the grass. 

Ivan lets himself stare in bewilderment at the scene for a moment, and thinks about how easy it is to grab a piece of rock and bludgeon Lieutenant Beilschmidt to death before making a run for it. But then he remembers how futile escape is, and sighs. He squats down and helps. 

Soon enough, with the employment of a few twigs and the work of some very determined hands, there is a hole - or an indent, really, albeit the depth - dug in the ground. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt drops the folded parchment containing the drawings of them into the hole. 

"Let's bury this up," he tells Ivan, smiling so gently that it makes Ivan's heart clench. "Now no matter what will happen, there will always be this part of us that will be together forever, until the paper rots away to become minerals and all." 

There is always this moment in which the stars align, memories and logic falling into place with a loud _click_ , and then everything becomes clear and the realisation barrels onto one's chest like a train. 

Most people call it an epiphany. Lieutenant Beilschmidt calls it the moment when people stop being stupid. Ivan simply calls it a realisation. 

"Oh," he whispers, and rethinks his understanding of Lieutenant Beilschmidt. "I don't know what to say." 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt grins. "Rendered speechless, are you?" he teases. "Do you feel happy?" 

 _Do you feel happy about what we did? What this mean? What I feel towards you?_ "Yes." 

The grin turns lazy, and the sharp edges smooth out. "Good." 

They bury the parchment together, this time much more slowly, and as they return back to camp, Ivan bumps their shoulders together every few steps. Lieutenant Beilschmidt returns the bump with a brush of their knuckles, and oh, that does put things into perspective, doesn't it? 

* * *

As much as Ivan likes snow, winter is always bad news. 

Winter means people are angrier and punishments thus harsher. It also means food is scarcer, the thin coats of the Russian uniform more useless, sleep riskier. Work is made worse and even before then, battles harder to bear. Life in winter, generally, becomes much more difficult. 

Ivan thinks it's an omen of sorts when he wakes up and see a crow staring down at him. 

The crow caws twice, each time harsh and condemning, before flying off from its perch on top of Ivan's chest. 

Ivan scrambles to his feet, stumbling over himself as he stands. 

His tent has collapsed a few weeks ago, so his fellow tent-mates has resigned themselves to sleeping under the stars huddling together. 

The winter tends to be too cold for any insects or animals to appear, much less a crow in an area of rocky terrains and plains. 

Ivan shuffles his way over to the railway track, and over there Lieutenant Beilschmidt is yelling in German at the guards, the other officers beside him ordering the prisoners off the area and to the central square that is really just an empty space near the camp director's tent. 

When Ivan comes into view, Lieutenant Beilschmidt's eyes widen. He hisses some final words to the guard in front of him. The guard grits his teeth and orders his unit to follow him and leave the area. Some of the younger officers go after them.

"Lieutenant?" Ivan begins, and Lieutenant Beilschmidt stalks forward and places both hands on Ivan's shoulders. 

"I need to talk to you," he says, switching effortlessly to Russian. His eyes flash, and Ivan has never seen Lieutenant Beilschmidt's eyes so lucid and fierce before, the quiet yet clear conviction swimming in his irises. 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt drags him off to the side, and it is only then Ivan fully registers how many people are running around in a desperate attempt to coordinate mass movement. 

"We received a telegram earlier," Lieutenant Beilschmidt explains, breathless after all that shouting. "The armistice is signed. They have decided the war will end in slightly more than an hour's time. They are sending anyone available for a final breakthrough, and we are one of the closest to the battlefield without actually being _on_ it." 

The icy pool in his stomach grows. "You're leaving?" 

Lieutenant Beilschmidt grimaces. "Be happy. You're about to be freed." 

"You might die." 

It earns Ivan a laugh. "So be it. I can't fight against direct orders." Lieutenant Beilschmidt inhales sharply. "I want to say goodbye."

"We can still find each other after the war." 

A snort. "Maybe." 

The silence hangs over them, and Ivan can almost hear the phantom ticks of a clock. It is a weird sort of fear that fills him now: too frantic, too full of regrets. Lieutenant Beilschmidt shuffles and turns to leave, but Ivan grabs his wrist.

Ivan blurts the first thing that comes to his mind. "Do you remember when you once asked me what snow smells like?" Ivan rambles, his fingers tightening. "It is you. Snow smells like you. It smells like family and home, but it also smells of you."

Lieutenant Beilschmidt's wrist trembles under Ivan's fingers; then the wrist twists and Lieutenant Beilschmidt is grabbing Ivan's wrist too, before the elbow bends and Ivan is drawn into a hug. 

"Find me," Lieutenant Beilschmidt orders, his voice muffled against Ivan's left shoulder. "I don't care if I'm nothing but a name scribed alongside others in memorandum. Find me." 

"Don't die," Ivan whispers back, and the arms around his ribs tighten. 

The hug is too short and yet the longest hug Ivan has ever felt; and then Lieutenant Beilschmidt slips from Ivan's arms and starts running back to his tent, getting ready for war. 

Ivan stares until Lieutenant Beilschmidt's figure disappears into the crowd, and stays staring still until an old officer screeches at him to go to the square. Ivan obeys, and wraps his arms around himself, wishing to retain Lieutenant Beilschmidt's  warmth just a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> For additional information, Ivan is brought in at around end 1916 to early 1917. Gilbert arrives at about end 1917. Brest-Litovsk is ignored because, well, things didn't really change for the Russian POWs despite all the major changes back home.


End file.
